Sussex Trout Fishing … and Devon

The Sussex countryside had been burnt to a crisp. Devon had two days of rain just before I left, enough to raise the rivers an inch. In the rolling Sussex fields the straw had been bailed and lifted leaving a uniform camel coloured corduroy carpet of stubble everywhere.

I stopped at Keepers Bridge and watched the river for thirty minutes. Nothing moved. No birds. No flies. The river made little effort to continue its journey. I decided to fish further upstream where the river narrowed and where there was more streamer weed for the trout to shelter.

I stood on Taylors Bridge and waited for a sign. The noisy campers, swimmers and loud music limited my choice to the north bank, downstream of the bridge. I wandered down to the end of the Beat, the deep runs alongside the willows and streamer weed failed to produce a fish. After rehydrating I drove back to Keepers Bridge, happy to pause for a few minutes in the air conditioned car.

I hadn’t given up hope. The sun was setting and a few upwing flies were emerging. A fish splashed in the first pool and I explored the area thoroughly. Another splash further upstream caught my attention. Yet another disturbance upstream lead to the realisation that it was a sea trout and that it was a waste of time chasing it with a nymph.

I waited another hour with high hopes that the trout would switch on as it got dark. They did not.

The month long heatwave, searing southerly winds and 40 degrees, finally petered out and I could consider fishing. The River Walkham was low but lots of little trout were dashing about below the weir, feeding in the cloudy water stirred up by noisy children and dogs. The occasional showers had been absorbed by the parched stony moorland and none of the water had reached the rivers. Cattle and Dartmoor ponies gathered around muddy water holes, the high moor looked like the African bush minus elephants.

I waited, impatiently, until late afternoon before heading across the border to the River Tamar. I was confident that the wide, tree lined Beat would yield a trout or two and possibly a grayling. I walked upstream, pausing at each gap in the trees to watch the water. Nothing was rising but there were plenty of upwing flies hatching and millions of pond skaters in the margins.

I noticed a very skinny fox creeping around among the rushes and stood perfectly still, waiting to see if it would pounce on something. It eventually saw me but was undecided about the threat level. I did a star jump and it trotted away behind a hedge. A couple of cormorants became airborne and were reluctant to leave the area, circling the river a couple of times while I waved my rod and cursed them. Not a good start to the evening.

I climbed down to the waters edge and sat on a rock while waiting for the thermometer to register. It read 17 degrees, slightly less than I expected. The water was flowing well and the riffle sent a bubble line towards the far bank with a nice back eddy on my side. As I flicked the nymph around the top of the riffle an occasional mayfly hatched from the shallows above me and struggled to gain height in the downstream breeze. There were a few swallows hawking the river but most of the mayfly made it to the leaf canopy. A few olives also hatched but the fish refused to rise.

I spent about an hour exploring the pool below the riffle but without any sign of a fish. The rocks and sunken branches provided good hiding places but the little trout inhabited an area just below the cormorants perching tree and the rock I was sitting on was liberally splashed with white. I concluded that they had all been eaten or frightened away and climbed back up the access ladder.

Once again I descended to water level and sat on a flat rock in midstream. I trundled the nymph down the bubble line and around in an arc before lifting and presenting the fly in a slightly different drift. I had four takes, missed two, and had two slack line releases which were down to my poor line management. I was rusty after four weeks absence from the rivers.

I walked downstream to a wide, tree lined area where all of the river was in dappled shade. I saw a fish rise and hid behind the trunk of an oak tree. I rolled the nymph slightly upstream and as the tip of the fly line landed, a good fish departed in a swirl and cloud of silt. My best chance of the evening and I had botched it. Nevermind, I consoled my self with cod and chips from the local chippie.

It was a glorious morning. I left the house eager to get to the river and to explore the Rother valley. I was undecided which Beat to fish but with low expectations of catching anything in the heat of the day, I chose the most scenic of the Beats, Keepers Bridge to Perryfields Barn.

As I wandered upstream I heard a rise below me, behind a bush, but I couldn’t find the decaying ripples. I decided to wait but soon heard the sound of another rise. By the time I’d retraced my steps upstream, that too had dissipated. I fished the Sandy Pool for a while convinced that a good fish was hiding under the streamer weed.

I lost a couple of nymphs attempting tricky casts through impossible gaps and under branches. The river had changed, the winter floods had reconfigured some of the fish holding places. Trees had come down and in places, the bank had collapsed filling deep runs with sandy soil.

I nearly reached Perryfields but heat and dehydration drove me back to the shade of the woods near Keepers Bridge. Nothing rose. Hundreds of blue damsel flies dashed from leaf to leaf and in the shade of the trees, horse flies zoomed around me.

One last cast. The long pool under the alder trees, where I had caught so many trout, would surely hold a fish. A big weed bed had formed under my bank. I flicked the nymph across the current and let it swing round alongside the weeds. The rod grew heavy and a nice trout became airborne. Several times. The long rod hooped over into a tight bend as I coaxed the deep diving fish away from the snags. It was a fin perfect brownie about two pounds which swam away from the net confidently, as if it knew the procedure.

I left the river, content that I had persevered in difficult conditions and that I had caught a good trout. I drove to Stag Park to admire the view and to check out the lakes. The landscape was stunning. The blue sky held a constant flow of fluffy white clouds which switched the sunshine on and off as they passed overhead. The cereal crops brightened the landscape and the headlands were full of wild flowers. The Sussex countryside was at it’s very best, softer than Dartmoor but equally impressive.

The lakes looked beautiful but nothing was hatching and the fish were not rising. The very hot weather during the last two weeks had sapped their energy.

My day had been a stark contrast to recent fishing trips on Dartmoor. The grass was easy to walk on and comfortable to sit on while waiting for a rise. I hadn’t seen a soul all day and spaniels were not allowed to jump in the river. The river demands a careful approach, it might deliver anything from a small chub to a mighty sea trout. I planned to return in July.

A couple of days ago I had a sudden impulse to fish, grabbed the gear and headed to the River Tavy. The weather forecast said that I had an hour before the rain arrived, it was wrong. As I set up my rod a gale force wind funneled down the valley and shook the ancient oak trees to their core. Concerned that my way out would be blocked, I jumped back in the Defender and beat a retreat. As I arrived home torrential rain hammered on the windows and the front path became a river. I therefore had unfinished business.

The river had only risen an inch or two, Dartmoor had soaked up most of the rain. The water was slightly coloured, like weak Earl Grey. The sun was bright but I was confident that I could winkle out a fish or two. Olives were hatching but the mayfly hatch had finished. I rolled a nymph through the pools, concentrating on the crevices in the bedrock.

A few fish rose but not consistently and I decided to stick with the nymph. The far side of the river was in shade but too shallow to hold fish. I slowly made my way down the Beat, trying to keep a low profile and avoid kicking any rocks.

I found a fish in the fast water at the head of a pool, it took the nymph gently and put up a decent scrap. I moved down to my favourite pool below the island where mature trees overhang deep water. Everything went rapidly downhill; wind knots, lost flies and tangles. The heat was getting to me so I retraced my steps and climbed the hill back to the Defender. The riverscape was beautiful and I had caught a trout. Perfect.

I’d heard on the grapevine that the fish were rising on the Tamar and that the recent rain had freshened up the river. I arrived at lunchtime, filled my pockets with a good selection of toffees and flies and walked across the fields keeping well away from the bull. The river had a brown tint but I could see the rocks scattered about in midstream, nothing was rising. I walked slowly to the top of the Beat, pausing for a few minutes at each gap in the trees. Mayfly were hatching and Blue Winged Olives were coming off in good numbers.

I fished the slow glides, rolling a nymph under the trees. I bumped a small fish which gave me confidence. I moved downstream until I reached the Ladder of Death and descended about 10 feet onto a rocky outcrop above a riffle. The glide above the riffle was shallow but the pool was deep and stretched for about a hundred yards, lots of water to explore. Sitting on a flat rock near midstream and casting from beneath an overhanging ash tree was challenging. While untangling the rod tip from a branch the line grew tight and I lifted into a fish. It felt like a good trout but to my surprise, it morphed into a graying. It was about 1lb, not a monster but a very welcome visitor to the bank.

I released the fish and decided to continue fishing that pool in the hope that a shoal of grayling lived there. I moved further along the line of rocks creating the riffle and found a comfy seat facing downstream. The casts flowed and I got into a rhythm. I heard a fish rise behind me in the glide. I flicked the nymph above the rise but the fish had moved on. A few minutes later there was a splashy rise on the lip of the riffle. I put the nymph about five yards upstream and just as the fly line started to drag into the fast water, a fish seized the fly and dashed downstream through the rocks and into the pool. I was convinced it was a trout but a much better graying eventually came to hand.

Fish began to rise in the glide, I saw several dimples within casting range. They were sipping down BWOs trapped in the surface film. I covered a few fish without response. I dropped the nymph about ten yards above the rocks, towards the far bank. Again, as the line started to drag, a fish grabbed the fly. There was no doubt about it’s identity, the brownie jumped repeatedly before heading through a gap in the rocks and releasing itself. It was a good fish, over 1lb, but I was not too miffed.

The wind strengthened and black clouds gathered along the horizon. I’d had a challenging but enjoyable couple of hours. The bull had followed the herd to an adjacent field, all was well in the world.